


Drifting

by rinentist



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Everyone is Dead, Post Game, Shuichi centric, mentions of maki and himiko too, or as happy as it can be with you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23419492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinentist/pseuds/rinentist
Summary: claire de lune, crying, and trying to keep living when it seems impossiblea post-game drabble-y fic about shuichi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Drifting

**Author's Note:**

> written to procrastinate........

The first time was when he heard Claire de Lune again.

A figure skating competition played on the airport TV, the sound barely louder than a whisper. He’d glanced over at it before the colors and movement of the glitching image threatened to give him motion sickness. He knew the melody by heart. He could probably recognize the first note in a rainstorm with headphones on. How could he not?

Luckily, neither the woman having an increasingly animated conversation on her phone nor the guy possibly sleeping or maybe passed out in his pajamas cared when he teared up and then rushed off into the bathroom, barely able to breathe.

So, this was how it was going to be.

A sick joke of the universe. A memento of his wonderful killing game experience even as he attempted to run as far away from it as possible.

The bathroom smelled foul, of course, but he couldn’t hear anything over the white noise of the fans. He played a mindless game on his phone for a couple minutes, waiting for the tears to dry.

When he walked out of the stall he almost didn’t recognize his own reflection. The bags under his eyes were the same, deep and dark, but hair, although messier than usual, was recently trimmed carefully so as to not resemble Shuichi Saihara, the ultimate detective. 

He wasn’t sure if he could claim the name anymore. Most definitely not the title, but Shuichi Saihara was as much the character as it was him, washing his face with barely colder than lukewarm water. After V3 aired Danganronpa had quietly advised the survivors to disappear from the public eye. They’d all taken the offer. Not many wanted to hear from survivors anyway. The same blank stare and short answers got old, as did the flinching at everything from a bang to a laugh. Then again, back then Danganronpa still thought it could survive the blow of the finale.

Ten thousand people showed up for Kaito Momota’s funeral. Shuichi was alone.

\---------------------------

Hours later. A place he’d never been to before. People who wouldn’t know him.

Maki met him at the airport; she’d come over with Himiko a couple weeks ago. Shuichi had offered to stay behind and finish up business, mostly finalizing their escape, and had practically forced them to leave him and retreat out of the city. He received less of the… unsavory messages anyway.

They’d barely exchanged nods before a kid, no more than 7 or 8, barrelled almost straight into Shuichi. His harried mother quickly followed, apologizing profusely, “It’s my own fault really, he loves grape Panta but it gives him such a sugar rush!”

That one almost made him smile before the baggage carousel made a sickening thud as another bag slid down and he grabbed Maki’s arm and rushed away. 

In the car he punched the radio on to cover the silence. It mockingly played a Sunday morning spiritual that Maki turned off before the first “Praise be to God” fell scathingly upon their ears. 

What do you say to someone who you watched thirteen people die with?

What do you say to someone who knows that nothing either of you say can ever help?

\---------------------------

They’d decided to live together almost immediately upon exiting the game. Shuichi met with his uncle once, surprised to find that that part of his “backstory” was true, but it quickly became evident that they had all had reasons to audition for Danganronpa. Good kids with good families did not audition for Danganronpa.

And anyway, how could you live with people you no longer remembered?

Either way, none of them would ever have to work, what with the triple payout from the show and the payout from the legal processes that followed that finally felled Danganronpa. The house they’d bought was in a small town, far from cities and bright lights and  _ people _ . It was safe.

Of course, it didn’t help when Shuichi shot up in the middle of the night thinking he heard the cheery  _ ding, dong, dong, ding  _ of a body discovery announcement. It didn’t help when he couldn’t sleep without his door bolted shut, and then still worried half the night away anyway. It didn’t help when he slept for days hoping not to wake up. It didn’t help when someone made a lewd joke or he so much as saw a tennis match or the stars or  _ red _ .

He talked, extensively, with Maki and Himiko after the first couple months. Maki’s hands still shook when she held knives, and Himiko still prayed before she slept. As if it had helped then.

As if it could erase their past now.

\---------------------------

By far the worst was when he could almost forget. When he saw a miniature model of the solar system in a shop window and almost let himself finish the thought,  _ I should get it for Kaito _ . When he saw a painter dressed in all yellow and almost called out a name. When a strange bug landed on his window and he almost took a picture to show someone who no longer lived.

When he reached out to the empty space behind him, the space where someone should have been.

They didn’t go to any of the funerals. Each and every service had been full of protestors and fans, crowds of people who hadn’t even really known the poor kid in the coffin. Even so Shuichi read each obituary. He would visit each grave once their names were buried deep in the neverending cycle of headlines. Maybe it would offer some sense of finality.

\---------------------------

The three hundred and fifty seventh time was when he heard Claire de Lune again.

The breath caught in his throat just as badly as it did the first time. An old woman sat at a piano poised just inside a storefront, her hair almost blonde in the orange rays of the sunset, and he could swear her sweater was the exact same shade of pink. A sign with big blockly letters hid her feet, “Lessons Available”. 

He wasn’t sure what made him walk in. Maybe it was the way she looked up at him as the first tear dropped down his face and didn’t show a fragment of shallow pity, just understanding.

He wasn’t sure what made him keep coming back. Maybe it was the way she guided his hands and laughed when he hit a wrong note. 

She ruffled his hair when she was proud of him.

There wasn’t ever a last time.

There couldn’t be a last time.

But they all smiled a bit more and Shuichi and Maki could stargaze again and Himiko performed magic tricks for the kids at the dojo and they laughed like it was the first time in years, and maybe it was.

It wasn’t the last time the first time Shuichi played Claire de Lune the whole way through, even though it had been years since the game was over. After the last note faded away he turned and saw grey hair and a sweater that wasn’t pink at all and proud, proud eyes matching his own, welled up with tears.   
And it was the first time for something else.


End file.
